


On the Downbeat

by kedgeree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack with Feels, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Ariadne catch Arthur in the act.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Downbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Flash fic!

They end up on the same flight from London to Dublin, although Eames sits business class while Ariadne flies economy. It isn't like she needs the extra room. She's not sure whether Eames's tartan flat cap and green check trousers are meant ironically or if he just thinks they're appropriate fashion choices for their destination. Either way, she's looking forward to Arthur's comments on the ensemble.

The taxi they share drops them off at the corner of a fairly seedy-looking part of town. It's a dreary day, misting cold rain, but Eames seems especially cheerful. He's been chattering away at Ariadne the whole ride, anecdotes from his last few jobs that have her laughing hard. He can be charming, Eames, when he wants to be. Or maybe it's when he isn't trying not to be.

The team is meeting at an abandoned pub, and it definitely looks abandoned. The street-facing windows are boarded up with black-painted shutters. There are wires dangling from broken floodlights over the sign—Shearwater, established 1902—and broken glass on the sidewalk. Pavement. Whatever.

Eames gives the metal gate over the front door a tug, but it doesn't budge. He leans toward it, cocking his head.

Ariadne checks her watch. "We're early, actually. Maybe Arthur isn't here—"

"Shh." Eames gestures her in closer. "Listen."

Ariadne leans in toward the gate, too, her head next to Eames's shoulder.

"Do you hear that?"

It's music, muffled, but with a thumpy sort of pop beat, like something from a high school dance. She nods up at Eames and frowns, wondering if they're going to have to run somebody off. Their extractor's already texted she won't be in for another hour and it can't be Arthur in there—he's all about classical music, opera, and obscure French shit from before he was even born.

Eames is peering around the side of the building, motioning Ariadne to follow. He scrambles over a tall wooden fence into the empty lot beside the pub.

"Eames!" Ariadne scowls.

Eames grins and hops back to the street side of the fence to give Ariadne a boost over.

"Shut up," she mutters. She lands lightly in a patch of overgrown grass next to a pile of discarded tires and adjusts her scarf back into its usual casually dignified drape.

There's a door around the back of the pub, a heavy door propped open with a brick at the base. After a silent exchanged look of agreement, Ariadne and Eames engage stealth mode and slip inside. The music is much louder, but they walk on the balls of their shoes anyway, skulking through what appears to be a storage room, dark and full of dusty shelves. There's another door at the far end of the room, open. A rectangle of light from what must be the main pub floor reaches inside.

A shadow appears inside the rectangle a split second before Arthur bounces past the open door, arms in the air, singing at full volume.

Eames starts so hard he slams sideways into Ariadne, who stumbles into a shelf. She claps one hand over her mouth and grabs Eames's jacket sleeve with the other. She yanks him into deeper shadow, even though there's no way either the thump against the shelf or the strangled squeaking sound she just made carried over that racket.

Oh, Arthur. You _fraud_.

Well, the song _is_ French. She'll give it that. Except it's not Edith Piaf or Juliette Gréco, it's a boy band. Singing a sparkling, club-ready French cover of…is it…? Yep. What I Like About You.

Eames has gone completely slack-jawed, and although Ariadne can't make out his expression too well in the dark, it looks like it is shifting rapidly from shock to manic glee.

Arthur writhes past the doorway again, folders in one hand and dry erase markers in the other, singing…well, more like shouting…along in thickly-accented French and performing enthusiastic pelvic thrusts.

Oh, God, Ariadne thinks, horrified for Arthur even as she gropes her pockets for her phone. Arthur would be _mortified_ if he knew they'd seen this. He would never forgive them. If he knew that _Eames_ of all people had seen—

Which is of course when Eames goes bounding through the door.

It happens almost in slow motion, almost like they're in a dream. There's Arthur, hip-bumping a bar stool. And there's Eames, gamboling up behind him with all the grace of an overstimulated gorilla. Arthur is right in the middle of executing a beautiful, balletic spin just as Eames spreads his arms wide and starts to sing…well, more like shout…

"Keep on whispering in my ear!"

Arthur freezes.

"Don't stop, darling!" Eames yells, grinning from ear to ear. "'Cause it's true!" He pounces on frozen Arthur and plants a big, loud kiss in the middle of his forehead. "It's what I like about you!"

Arthur blinks.

Eames, Ariadne knows, is an athletic guy, with grace and economy of movement. _Dancing_ Eames, however, is the most ungainly, undignified creature Ariadne has ever beheld, and he is _beaming_ at Arthur, bouncing in time with the beat. Sort of.

"Come _on,_ " Eames waves his hands wildly and attempts a mid-air spin of his own. His flat cap flies off his head and he knocks over Arthur's bar stool, barely landing on his feet. He shakes out his shoulders and presents himself to Arthur proudly, like he's done something absolutely amazing.

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches.

"Fuck." He throws the dry erase markers over his shoulder.

On the downbeat, he bends his knees.

And on the upbeat, he jumps.

"Yeah!" Eames shouts with the music.

Eames careens around the room like a demented Tigger and Arthur weaves around him like a person who actually knows how to dance, both of them smiling bright as the sun and giggling like schoolboys. "Tell me all the things that I wanna hear," Eames chants, grabbing Arthur's hands. He pulls Arthur into an exuberant embrace. "That's what I love about you!"

From her hiding place in the shadows, Ariadne sees Arthur's face over Eames's shoulder. And her breath catches.

Yeah, this...this Arthur wouldn't want her to see.

She lunges for the back door, kicks the brick out of the way so the door slams shut with a loud, heavy _thud_. There's a clattering sound from the main floor and the music stops abruptly. She walks back through the dark storage room and through the doorway to the pub proper. Arthur and Eames are standing apart. Arthur's music player is in pieces on the floor.

Eames is breathing hard. He gives Ariadne a sheepish look and bites his bottom lip, and really…how has she never noticed how much he truly, absolutely, completely _adores_ Arthur?

"Hey," she says casually.

"Hey," Arthur is bright pink from his hair to his collar. "Just…getting set up here."

Ariadne stuffs her hands in her pockets and says, "Okay."

Oh, Arthur, she thinks, trying hard not to smile. You _fraud_.

Arthur clears his throat and glances at Eames, then frowns at Eames's green check trousers.

Eames's eyes crinkle expectantly.

 


End file.
